The General's Bed
by Jebbykins
Summary: A servant and his master, tied together by circumstances beyond their control. Oneshot, Zelgius/OC, very mild fluff.


Title: The Bed

Disclaimer: I do not own Fire Emblem or its characters. But if I did, I'd make Soren and Ike the happiest damn couple ever.

Warning: OC, very mild fluff. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

A breeze whispered through the large tent, the canvas flapping slightly in the gentle wind. Its lone occupant, a pale boy with a thin blanket drawn around his thin shoulders, sat on a large mat, shivering with cold. His snowy white hair hung low over his equally as pale eyes, and his little toes peeked out from under the too-small blanket.

Why he hadn't been given a truly proper way to shield himself from the bitter cold outside was unknown to Alfons, but at least he was better off than the soldiers. They were out there, walking around in metal armor in the dead of night, patrolling for any laguz that may be prowling around. Daein had released a few score of their Feral Ones, and the General and his men had been sent to take care of any that showed their fanged faces.

Alfons wrapped the blanket tighter around himself, and looked around the tent for another source of warmth. Sure, he wasn't really going to freeze, but he was uncomfortable, and while that was something he was used to, he didn't enjoy it one bit. As his eyes scanned the room, they alighted on the huge bed, a gigantic red thing that looked as comfortable as it was big, which was very. That was the General's bed, though, and if he was caught in it, he would be in a heap of trouble.

Tonight was especially cold, though, and the bed looked dangerously inviting and soft. Deciding it might be worth it, the young boy stood slowly, wincing as his joints popped audibly. The General usually had him confined to the tent, with the logic that 'he needed his healer healthy'. It was good logic, really, except Alfons rarely did any healing for the General, as the man was rarely hurt. It made Alfons wonder exactly why the General kept him around.

The dirt crunched softly beneath Alfons' heels as he made his way to the chair, and, not for the first time, the young cleric was thankful for the sandals he had been given. They offered little protection, but at least he didn't have to pick gravel and dirt out of the soles of his feet. He had it pretty good, he thought silently. For a servant, anyway.

So preoccupied with his thoughts was Alfons that he didn't realize that he had reached the bed until he walked straight into the small table beside it, knocking it askew. A quiet noise of alarm rose from his throat, and he scrambled to right it again, fearing it would somehow call the General in. After he was certain the table was back in its place, Alfons peered at the piece of furniture apprehensively. He knew he really shouldn't be doing this, but it was cold, and the bed's woolen sheets looked so inviting…Before he knew what happened, Alfons had slipped under the covers of the bed, and pulled the maroon-dyed sheets up to his shoulders.

Immediately, Alfons felt his eyelids droop. The bed was so warm…well, not really, but it was certainly a step up from the stupid mat he usually slept on. He tossed and turned a few times, until he found a position he liked. A sleepy haze clouded the boy's mind as the warmth from the bed and the fatigue from traveling slammed into him like a brick of lead. Maybe…maybe he could sleep for just a little? The General wouldn't be back for a long while…Yeah, he could rest for a bit…With a soft yawn, Alfons' eyes slowly slid shut, the quiet embrace of sleep calling to him…

…And he was promptly startled from his place between sleep and lucidity by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Pale eyes snapped open, thin fingers hooked in the sheets, and Alfons swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. _He…he's back. He's back, and I'm in his bed. _Slowly, shakily, the cleric sat up, looking anywhere but up at General Zelgius, who's piercing green eyes were no doubt trained on him.

The tent was, except for the rustling of the canvas flaps in the wind, absolutely silent. Neither man nor boy spoke for what felt like hours, and with every passing second, Alfons felt his heart beat faster until he was sure it was going to explode. Finally, Zelgius broke the stifling silence with a soft chuckle.

"You're going to pass out if you don't breathe."

The comment was so matter-of-fact, so simple and casual that Alfons was momentarily taken aback, but he quickly exhaled, the pressure in his chest lessening considerably. He opened his mouth to come up with an excuse for being in Zelgius' bed, but no words would form, no sound would come out. All Alfons could think about was the many ways the General could punish him. No food for a week…no blanket…forcing him to walk barefoot on the dirt…the possibilities were endless, it seemed. Alfons blinked once, twice, then looked up at the armored man before him.

"I-I'm sorry, s-sir…" he squeaked, all nerves in front of General Zelgius. "B-but…I was cold, and I thought that…I-I'm sorry…" Alfons looked down at his feet again, fidgeting nervously on the edge of the bed. Zelgius only chuckled again, and turned, striding away from the bed. The Begnion man could be so strange at times, but his general calmness was a plus. Never a fit of anger, nor a boastful bragging session. It did make it difficult, however, to determine exactly what the enigmatic warrior was feeling.

When Zelgius didn't say anything, it became increasingly obvious to Alfons that another of the General's famous silences was coming on. Not even the Apostle could bear one of the prolonged hushes that the crimson-armored man seemed to evoke at will. Alfons was understandably surprised, then, when Zelgius turned, and fixed him with a green gaze. "Help me off with this armor."

The command seemed unusually harsh for the General, so it was no shock that the ashen boy approached rather hesitantly. As Zelgius took a seat in his chair, Alfons slowly began unclasping the armor that protected the older male's powerful body. "I was hit today," Zelgius explained as the second clasp came undone. "A bite, through my side." _Click. _"It's not fatal, but it hinders my fighting, so you'll need to heal the wound." _Click. Click._

"Y-yes, sir…" Alfons nodded, and, having unclasped the General's breastplate, stepped back. A good idea, in retrospect, as the armor struck the floor where he had been standing with a violent crunch, a cloud of dirt and dust the proof of the metal's immeasurable weight. With the breastplate removed, Alfons was once again amazed Zelgius could stand to not wear a shirt beneath that armor, especially given the chilling weather.

The pallid boy sucked in a breath. The wound had not been a clean one, and it was deep. Bits of dirt and clotted blood clung to the edge, presenting a possible infection. Not even Zelgius could fight off an attack from within. "One moment, sir…I'll get my staff…" At Zelgius' grunt of affirmation, Alfons hurried away, only to return momentarily with his staff in hand. Its wood was polished and clean, and the orb on the end glowed a calming blue, swirling with healing energies.

Alfons knelt at the General's side, and, taking a deep breath, murmured, "Mend…" At the boy's evocation, the orb at the end of the staff glowed a soothing white, as the magic poured forth, into the wound. Slowly, flesh and skin began knitting together, the wound sealing closed in a matter of minutes. The only indication of any discomfort from the enigmatic soldier above Alfons was a soft intake of breath.

After he was sure the wound had properly healed, Alfons drew the staff away, setting it down. "It's healed, sir…" He stood, prepared to put his staff away, when his ashy eyes flickered to the design imprinted on Zelgius' left shoulder-blade. It was a beautiful shape, appearing to be an intricate, symmetrical hawk. Not for the first time, Alfons wondered what it meant. Perhaps a tattoo of some kind? It wasn't certain.

For some reason, Alfons suddenly found himself compelled to lay a hand on it, as if to cement the fact that it was there. A tentative hand reached out, making to touch the design, and the boy was surprised to find that Zelgius hadn't yet stopped him. The muscular man did, however, shiver when Alfons' hand pressed against his skin, the touch sending little sparks of…something…down his spine. "Alfons. It's time to sleep." It came out clipped, hurried, almost desperate.

The tone of the General's voice alarmed Alfons, making it clear the mark was not to be touched. Obedient as ever, the pale boy took his hand away, and watched as Zelgius moved stiffly to the bed. "Goodnight, sir…" Alfons murmured, and made to return to his own mat, but was stopped by a soft chuckle.

"Come here." Alfons turned, and as thoroughly surprised to see Zelgius sitting on the bed, one hand gesturing to the sheets. "You earned it. Go on, don't be shy." The blue-haired man smiled softly, a genuine sign of kindness. Zelgius was…offering his bed? To his servant? It defied any kind of tradition, but then again, so did the General. Hesitant at first, Alfons moved to the big, soft bed, and, at a nod from the powerful man, slipped his sandals off and climbed in, reassuming the position he had taken before.

Before he knew what had happened, Alfons realized just how drained the healing had left him. Pale eyes began to droop, features creased in worry softened out, and the boy's body went lax, sleep finally claiming him for the remainder of the morning.

As he watched the young boy drift off, Zelgius couldn't help but smile. To think that this boy had come so far from the terrified toddler he had found weeping over his mother's body…it made Zelgius' normally stoic heart swell with what he imagined to be pride. A huge, if gentle hand reached out and slipped Alfons' collar down just slightly, and green eyes focused on the black, winglike design on the nape of the boy's neck. A Branded mark. "You and I are more alike than you know, Alfons." Zelgius spoke quietly, hushed, not wanting to wake the boy. "Outcasts, something in between. We can never lead normal lives. We have to stick together." The hand moved from Alfons' neck to his much smaller hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze. And Zelgius could have sworn that, just for a moment, for a single, solitary moment, Alfons had squeezed back.

END

Well, that's it. Yup. My little story. Tell me whatcha think, all criticism is welcome.


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